A Court of Muses

by Sarina Dorie

  The human poet mostly ignored them, so immersed in his writing he didn’t seem to be bothered by their conversation. Errol doubted the man spoke Fae anyway. The poet wrote so fervently, he didn’t even look up when the door rattled.

  Steorra had instructed Errol in warding the perimeter to keep anyone from entering. The door held, even as someone pounded on it.

  Muffled shouting came from outside.

  “That sounds like Quenylda. We might as well ignore her.” She flicked her fingers at the door, and the commotion outside dimmed.

  It was only when something crashed into the door and a sword stuck out from the wood that they both turned.

  “I know he’s in there with you!” Quenylda yelled.

  Sweat prickled the back of Errol’s neck. He feared he’d been caught. More crashing came from outside, the soundproofing spell broken.

  San Juan muttered and shook his head. His inspiration fizzled like a flame about to go out.

  “Go see what Quenylda wants. If she’s looking for her husband, inform her he isn’t here.”

  Errol wished that was all she was going on about, but he doubted it. He was certain she knew what they were doing, and he was going to be thrown in the dungeon. Errol opened the doors, and Quenylda stumbled back. A group of guards stood in the hall around her, looking annoyed. An officer he had seen in the mess hall but didn’t know personally, a tall man with dark skin, gave Errol an apologetic frown.

  Quenylda pushed past Errol. “I know what you’ve been doing in here. Don’t try to deny it.”

  Steorra gestured to the poet at the table. “I am hosting a guest. I won’t deny it.”

  Quenylda grabbed her sister by the collar and shook her. “Stop playing coy with me. Where is my husband?”

  Steorra pushed her off. “How should I know? It isn’t my fault you can’t keep better track of him.”

  Errol returned to the wall where he had been stationed before, closer to Steorra. He wasn’t supposed to intervene when royalty dueled, but he didn’t like Quenylda’s physical violence toward her sister.

  Quenylda slapped Steorra before releasing her. Errol clenched and unclenched his fists, fighting the urge to intervene.

  San Juan looked up at the exchange and crossed himself.

  Quenylda looked to Errol. “You, soldier, have you seen my husband?”

  Errol wished he’d glamoured himself invisible again. “No, Your Highness. I have not.”

  Quenylda marched around, examining the room. Her survey still hadn’t satisfied her, for she appropriated Errol’s sword and began stabbing the furnishings. At first he thought she did so in anger, then he realized she examined the blade each time she finished stabbing a cushioned settee or the air as if searching for blood. She must have thought her brother had disguised himself as an article of furniture—which wasn’t so farfetched considering the Fae who had been glamoured to resemble a chandelier and a fountain at the king’s salon.

  Quenylda ended up using so much force in her fury, she bent his sword and got it caught in the seat of a chair before giving up. She breathed heavily, having used up a great deal of strength and magic in her agitation.

  She stalked closer to Errol, sniffing at the air. “I smell my husband’s magic.”

  Errol suspected she sensed his own muse magic, not Prince Elric-Atherius’. He stared forward, not meeting her gaze.

  “What is a soldier of the Silver Court doing in here anyhow?” Quenylda demanded.

  “He’s a guard. He’s guarding,” Steorra said.

  Quenylda leaned in closer to him. “Is he?”

  Errol was quite surprised when she grabbed him by the crotch. “Or is he my husband in disguise in order to keep me from suspecting the affair you two are having?”

  Errol wanted to draw away from her, but his back was already pressed against the wall. He fought the instinct to shove her away. Quenylda grinned like a predator who had caught her prey. Her nails dug into him.

  “For the love of Fae, leave that poor guard alone, Quenylda,” Steorra shouted. Her eyes flashed blue, then green, then red in quick succession.

  The artist glanced up from his masterpiece just in time to witness Errol’s humiliation. The man muttered something and shook his head.

  “What going on here?” Prince Elric-Atherius said from the doorway. He held a birdcage containing a parrot in one hand and a little girl’s hand in his other.

  The girl was about six, with pale blonde hair and silvery eyes. She was the offspring of the prince and his Witchkin mistress. When the girl spotted Quenylda, she shrank back behind her father.

  “This door looks as though it’s been broken down,” Prince Elric-Atherius said. His gaze traveled from the door to his wife.

  Quenylda looked from Errol to her husband. She disengaged her hand from Errol’s crotch and smiled as though nothing were amiss. “And where were you just now, pray tell?”

  Prince Elric-Atherius held up the birdcage. The bright parrot within was no ordinary animal. It had the rainbow feathers and body of a tropical bird, but it had the head of a cat. “My little Beverly and I were inventing creatures. She’s very creative.” He looked to the child fondly. “Do you want to tell everyone about the pet you thought up?”

  The little girl shook her head and hid behind Elric-Atherius, out of Quenylda’s sight. She was a smart child.

  “It’s a cat-bird, in case anyone was wondering,” Elric-Atherius said.

  Quenylda stomped toward him, her heels making sharp clicks against the floor like knives. “I searched this entire castle for you. I used my own magic to divine your presence, and then I used that of Witchkin servants. No one could find you.”

  “I wasn’t in the castle,” Prince Elric-Atherius said. He skirted back. “We were outside on the grounds.”

  Quenylda’s voice was cool and cutting. “You spend far too much time with this child and your mistress. You should be spending that time with me, getting me with child.”

  “We’ve tried to have children, my love. It’s time you admitted it isn’t possible. Father was the one who ordered me to take a mistress if that’s what it took to sire—”

  “Hold your tongue.” Quenylda snatched the bottom off the cage, letting it tumble to the floor. The bird started to fly off, but she grabbed it by the neck and twisted it. Beverly whimpered.

  “Next time you will ask my permission before you disappear for hours at a time.” Quenylda flung the cat-bird onto the floor. Her eyes shifted from green to the same silver as her husband’s child’s. “Do you understand me?”

  Prince Elric-Atherius didn’t answer. He stared at the dead cat-bird. Beverly sniffled.

  Quenylda marched out, head held high. Only when she was gone did the little girl truly begin to cry.

  “I’m sorry, love. We’ll make another tomorrow.” Elric-Atherius picked up his daughter and kissed her tear-streaked cheeks.

  After Errol left the room, one of the guards nudged him and winked. “So . . . how does it feel to be the first guard to get fondled by a princess?”

  Errol would hardly call Quenylda’s violence fondling. A few of his men out in the hallway snickered.

  Later when Errol went to visit his sister, Alma, she raised an eyebrow. “I heard some gossip today that Princess Quenylda had a hold of one of the guards by the bollocks. That wasn’t you, was it?”

  The other kitchen maids giggled.

  His face flushed. Just what he needed, the entire castle knowing about the encounter with Quenylda.

  It took a week before the gossiping and teasing died down among his men. Just when he began to forget about the last royal outburst, his life took another turn.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  A Blushing Bride

  When Alma visited Errol in the barracks or the training arena where he instructed new recruits, she always brought him baked goods from the kitchen. Sometimes he shared, but only if he liked the men he was training. The ones who were
snotty gits, he quite enjoyed telling them to return to practice.

  Semmy seemed to have a knack for showing up when Alma arrived with biscuits or custard pastries. He stole a small tart from the plate when she brought Errol a variety of leftovers from a luncheon the queen had held with her relatives.

  “Just so you know, I’m only letting you have one because you aren’t my enemy,” Errol said, swiping the sweetmeat tart from the plate before his friend stole it.

  Semmy said around a mouthful, “If I was your enemy, I would suggest hexing a tart so that I would choke, and then you wouldn’t have to share any with me.”

  “If you were my enemy, I would spit in it when you weren’t looking and then tell you later,” Errol said.

  “What is it with the two of you always going on about being enemies?” Alma asked.

  “It’s just how we show our friendship,” Semmy said.

  Alma rolled her eyes.

  Semmy accompanied Errol and Alma to the Yule cèilidh, which was an outdoor event with bonfires and dancing. It was the opposite of the prim and proper royal balls he attended as a guard. When the king held a party, there was sophisticated music that people danced to in an orderly choreographed fashion. Nobles dressed in excessive and ridiculous attire, caked with so much glamour it was difficult to say what they looked like underneath it all. The balls were stuffy and boring.

  He imagined he would hate to be a rich man stuck celebrating the holiday with their traditions.

  They sold hot cider and mulled wine at the cèilidh. Errol purchased a round of hot cider for Semmy, Alma, and himself. He enjoyed spending time with his two favorite people in all the world.

  “Have pity on me and dance with me once,” Semmy asked Alma.

  “No. I’ve seen you dance. You always step on your partner’s feet.”

  “That was just once, and it was because Errol jinxed my feet as a jest.”

  “I did not!” Errol laughed. “Don’t blame me for your lack of dancing skills.”

  Eventually Semmy coaxed Alma into dancing with him. Errol held their cups. His favorite part of the evening was the singing. He’d always enjoyed singing along to shanties in the navy and air navy. He missed that part of his life, even if he hadn’t been particularly gifted at singing. As Errol watched the sparks of creativity flow from the dancers and singers, he suspected he understood why he enjoyed this so much more than the balls. There was more passion here.

  He was careful to imbibe only small portions of errant energies that wouldn’t be noticed.

  Alma’s favorite part of the evening was the storytelling. Errol suspected Semmy’s favorite part of the evening was the lass he left with.

  Semmy’s companion was Witchkin. Errol wondered whether his friend had done that on purpose to try to make a point that he didn’t think less of women who weren’t pure-blooded Fae.

  * * *

  For several months, Errol went to the cèilidhs with Alma and Semmy—and went just about everywhere else with them too. Sometimes Semmy was assigned duty guarding one of the king’s sons or daughters at an event outside the castle, or Errol was assigned a duty to escort the king to another court’s ball, but when Errol came home after a long trip, he always went to the kitchen first to see Alma.

  After a two-week-long assignment with his unit when they provided security for Prince Beorhtsige at an extended visit with one of his cousins, Errol returned to find Semmy in the kitchen at Errol’s usual place at the bench while Alma rolled out sugar-biscuit dough.

  “Either I’m predictable, or you know me well,” Errol said, giving Semmy a good-natured shove.

  His friend scooted over on the bench to make room for Errol. Semmy’s mouth was too full of shortbread to answer. He simply nodded.

  Alma winked at Errol. “It’s because you’re predictable. Not that we mind.”

  Semmy clapped Errol on the back. “Who says I’m here to see you? I just came to visit Alma and see if she had anything good to eat. She told me I can have all the burnt biscuits I want.” He winked at her. “I keep trying to distract her in the hope of her burning more biscuits.”

  Errol gave his sister a peck on the cheek and took his seat. Alma stooped over Errol and gave him a hug, getting flour and sugar all over his uniform. From the way she patted her hands against his coat and laughed wickedly, he could see she hadn’t lost her youthful mischief.

  He attempted to brush the white handprints away. “Alma, why did you do that? I’m going to have to use a cleaning spell on this wool, and I’m too beat after just getting home.”

  “Your sister can be quite vexing when she wants to be,” Semmy said.

  Her eyebrows rose in mock exasperation. “That’s not what you told me earlier when you wanted biscuits.”

  Errol stole a shortbread biscuit from the plate Semmy was hoarding. “What did you tell her earlier?”

  Semmy shrugged. “I don’t remember.”

  “You said I was beautiful, witty, skilled, and intelligent.” Alma lifted her nose up in the air. “You said I was comely and smelled like sugar.”

  Errol lifted an eyebrow at his friend. He couldn’t tell whether Semmy had been serious or jesting. Alma was beautiful, though the cap she wore in the kitchen hid her hair and wasn’t particularly flattering to her face.

  Semmy didn’t meet his eyes. “And I said you were generous. And what did I get for that? Burnt biscuits.”

  She nudged him with the rolling pin, getting flour on his jacket too now. “Give Errol the plate if you don’t want what I gave you.”

  Errol reached for the plate.

  Semmy slid them away where Errol couldn’t reach. “I didn’t say I didn’t want them.”

  Alma laughed and tossed a pinch of flour into Semmy’s face. Semmy waved it away, chuckling and shaking his head at her antics. Errol recognized that look in his sister’s eyes. He looked from Semmy to Alma, uncertain his friend felt the same way about her as she did about him. It wasn’t that he thought his friend incapable of settling down and marrying a woman, but Semmy had never expressed interest in doing so. He was like Errol—married to his career. He rarely had time for a relationship.

  The next day when Errol went to the kitchen, his sister wasn’t there. He asked one of the other maids where she was, and the maid said, “She went to collect some herbs from the garden with that friend of yours.”

  “My friend?” Errol asked, his mouth feeling slow.

  “Aye, that’s right. The tall one with the bright blue eyes and dark skin. He is your friend, is he not?”

  “Indeed,” Errol said.

  He found Semmy and Alma in the garden. Somehow his sister had convinced Semmy to wear her apron and hold it out like a basket so she could place herbs in the fabric.

  “Make haste with that parsley, woman. My arms are getting tired,” Semmy complained.

  She cut a handful of herbs from a shrub and placed it in the apron. “If you complain, I’ll give you pinches and pokes instead of kisses later.”

  “Can’t I get a little sample now?”

  “Be patient.” Her eyes twinkled.

  Errol backed away, feeling like he was invading their privacy. Semmy hadn’t been there to see him the other day. He’d been in the kitchen to see Alma. Errol couldn’t believe it. His best friend and his sister? This was wonderful. No, this was horrible. What if it didn’t work out?

  Also, they hadn’t told him. They obviously didn’t want him to know.

  Over the next few weeks, he noticed how close Semmy and Alma sat. He pretended he didn’t notice them nudging each other with their feet under the table or how his sister suddenly wanted to dance with Semmy. More than that, he noticed the change in Semmy. When they were on duty, he often stared off into space, smiling to himself like a lovelorn lad.

  Errol tried to hold his tongue, but his temper and his words burst out of him all at once. “When are you planning on marrying my sister?”

  Semmy’s smile co
uldn’t have grown more sheepish if he’d grown wool and started bleating. “It’s not like that. I know she’s your sister. I’ve been a gentleman.”

  Errol crossed his arms. “Indeed. Do you mean you’re a gentleman in the bedroom or outside of it?”

  Semmy sighed in exasperation. “I’m courting her. She didn’t want me to tell you in case it didn’t work out. She didn’t want things to be awkward for us if she decided I wasn’t ‘up to her standards.’” Semmy imitated Alma’s voice so accurately it almost made Errol laugh.

  “And you planned on not saying anything to me because Alma supposedly made you?” Errol asked.

  “She made me give her my word I wouldn’t.” Semmy stared into Errol’s eyes, his own filled with earnestness. “But I did everything I could to make it obvious to you I fancied her. For being in the king’s guard, it took you long enough to notice. I wouldn’t trust you to be able to spot assassins if it took you three months to notice I’ve been courting your sister.”

  Three months? Errol had thought it had been closer to three weeks.

  He had a lot to learn in his career, as well as in matters of the heart.

  Semmy and Alma married within the year. Errol continued with his lessons in secret, improving in his abilities to control his muse powers and learning how to supplement his energies with this magic without giving himself away.

  For a time, all three of them were happy.

  Errol could almost forget about the daily cruelty he witnessed in the Silver Court if he focused on all the good in his life.

  Yet when tragedy struck and there was a murder committed in the castle, it brought all the royal family’s deeds fresh to mind.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  The Depravity of the Green-Eyed Monster

  Errol was one of the first to arrive on the scene of the death. He rushed to the nursery after hearing a scream.

  A Witchkin woman in a silk dress sat on the floor with a child in her arms. Errol recognized the woman as Winifred, Prince Elric-Atherius’s mistress. The little girl was Beverly, their daughter. A nursemaid lay facedown on the floor. Another was slumped in a rocking chair, half falling out.